Rain poured
for hours, a reminder of tough days past. Outside, the chairs seemed to have
been left behind hastily, one of them thrown to the floor, forgotten in a
puddle of falling drops. A few hours earlier, the family had been sitting at
that table, sharing, desperately trying to overcome differences. These
differences were deep wounds that had bled for years, wounds he was never able
to prevent or help heal. He tried, but he bled too. How could he do anything if
he was part of the pain shared? In his passivity, he saw the children fight
through the storm, growing bitter and far apart. Years past, his wife, their
mother, died. An over-controlling woman with a mean streak, she took pleasure
in seeing pain in his eyes first, then in the children’s. He would never forget
that final walk when he let go of his pain and, he believed, his wife’s too…
When he saw the girls come back, he dreamt that the page would be turned. They
would finally become a real family filled with laughter and those girlish
giggles he yearned to hear when they were so small. Then the rain came... He
fell and was rushed to the hospital. He never woke up again, but never before
had he felt so alive, the family gathered, one last time, unknowingly just for
him.

Patty was
the eldest of the five. She drove all the way back, from where she had been
hiding, the farthest away city she could find when she decided to leave home. Against
her father’s will, she packed a small bag and left, sure to find a world she
would conquer, free of all restrains, free of pain. After a few years of
struggling, she opened the Blue Note, an elegant jazzy place where most of the
city’s elite gathered for a drink and some music. The flow of famous blues and
jazz musicians attracted unknown singers eager to show off their talent, hoping
to catch the eye of an agent. The crowds of people coming in every night also
brought a few unwanted visitors, members of the underworld trying to get a cut
of the exorbitant amount of money the club made, high-rollers and petty drug
dealers alike, seeking to make a fast buck. She moved in this milieu quite astutely. Her contacts in
the police department kept things under control and she returned the favor by
allowing them a safe haven for their indiscretions. Now she was returning home,
fighting to run away once again, eager to find that slice of freedom she was
still looking for.

Jill turned the key to lock the door of her house by the sea. She stopped for a few seconds, hesitating between going ahead with the plan or simply unlocking the door and forgetting all about this crazy trip. Patty had the idea, and what
Patty said was the rule. It had always been like that, but she really didn’t
have to go along with it, she wasn’t a kid anymore. She could just disappear, like
she had done a few years after her sister left home. “Why go back?” she heard
herself say, getting startled by her own voice. She was now happily married, writing
her books, and paving the way towards a promising career. Going home would
bring back old stories, old accusations, and most of all pain. Somehow she felt
relieved her mother would not be there. “Right… Let’s do this then,” she said,
pepping herself to letting go of the doorknob, counting the waves splashing on
the shore. She was tough, yet… just below the surface, coming face to face with
the past made her feel as small and defenseless as she was back then.

Cordelia held her smiling Buddha. The wooden statue travelled with her throughout the world, finally settling down in Tokyo on her mantelpiece. A blend between modern and traditional Japanese, her apartment was as uncluttered as her daily life and her heart. She had found an unexpected peace of mind in Japan with a quiet uneventful nine-to-five secretarial job at a new technologies company, a soothing hobby learning to play the shamisen at the Harvest Moon and doing public performances. When her sister Patty set the exodus in motion, many years ago, Cordelia tried to stay. She tried to stay for as long as she could; she struggled to handle their mother’s hatred, as long as some of her sisters were still at home. But she failed. She wasn’t the last to leave or the only one to stay. That was the pain Cordelia still bore in her heart and the main reason why she sat on that plane, flying back home.

The youngest of all the sisters, Angel felt the wrath the worst. She was
rebellious, autonomous, irreverent, mocking even. The scar that ran across her
back, from the right shoulder down, was a vivid reminder of the battles she had
to endure. Her sisters tried to protect her as much as they could; they hid her
in the attic, took her food and cleaned her wounds. However, she refused to
turn away from the beast, as they called their mother, a beast filled with anger
and irrationality, slashing their father’s belt against Angel’s back, thighs,
arms; this cynical gesture would also hurt her weak father, a man who never
stood up for his daughters. While she was still very young, Jill showed up one
day. Angel was hiding out in the old oak tree. Her sister grabbed her by the wrist,
no packing, no hesitating, and took off with her. They never went back. Then
she rebelled against Jill too, overstepping boundaries, breaking rules and dying
more and more in a parallel and hazy world of an excess of drugs. When Patty
called her, she said no. However, her Master, a wise man who was determined to
bring her back to life and who saw much farther beyond the pain, teaching her
the meaning of trust, told her to go. And she understood.

Mathilda stayed behind, not because she couldn’t leave, but because she was
strong enough to stay. Of all the sisters, she was the only one their mother
didn’t dare touch. Angel constantly brought the mother to a blind, full blown
rage; Cordelia shied away from conflict, trying to convince her little sister
not to test their mother’s patience; Jill ached violently for a family of her
own to simply find peace, and Patty was a strong-willed soul set on a survival
mode. They scattered in all directions, one by one. She stayed, for herself,
for their father, even for their mother. She feared the worst would happen if
she left, so she surrounded herself by books, fragments of memories and
forgotten dreams, collected letters scattered in a pandemonium inside of her. In
her daydreaming escapades, she sailed aimlessly with her sister Cordelia; she
sang in a duet with Patty; she lived under the sea with Jill; she held her little
sister Angel and told her everything would be alright. She was the only one of
them who attended the mother’s funeral, her father’s fading will clutching to her
arm while he whispered “I miss your sisters...”

The five sisters sat in silence, looking at the soft web and flow of the
sea. The old oak tree they used to climb and hide in remained faithful and kept
company to the five grown women, a shared past, and a sisterhood about to
unfold from the pain of loss.

“Why did you leave, Patty?” asked Angel.

Patty sunk her fingers in the warm sand. “Amazing, how yesterday it was
pouring and today…”

“Jill, you could afford to… I was practically living on the street and,
when lucky, sleeping at friends’ places… You have no idea what I had to do…”
replied Patty.

A stifling silence settled in for long minutes.

Each one of them was divided between reliving the sorrows of countless
unspoken resentments and the need, the wish to find their way back to the
primordial togetherness that existed between them, a bond as strong as life,
broken by distance and pain.

“If you want to see it that way… Even Dad left, in a way, hiding out in
his garage. Everyone left, but Mathilda…” added Patty.

Mathilda smiled. The warm afternoon seemed to plot in favor of the
sisters. She knew that.

“Well, this won’t take us anywhere. It’s only us now, girls. We need to
stick together,” said Cordelia, always conciliatory.

The sisters talked about the infamous belt and that evening when they
had to hide little Angel in the attic, one by one secretly going up there with
the needed paraphernalia to clean and dress the wound. They talked about being
the last to leave school and slowly walking home together, because the bus took
them back to hell too fast. They talked about the lost nights of sleep,
listening to the violent arguments between their mother and father, thinking
there would be consequences the next day. Amidst the pain, in reality, they
talked about their togetherness. How they shared the sparse lunch bought, two
sandwiches and a bottle of water for five, with the few coins their dad had
given them. They smiled when they recalled reading stories before bedtime and living
in them, imagining new endings, taking characters from one story to visit with
the characters of another.

After long hours, the day came to an end, a soft soothing breeze
whispering over the dunes. They started by sitting randomly, a great distance
between them. They ended sitting side by side, looking at the sun setting
behind the line of the horizon, preparing for a new day somewhere on the other
side of the world as they prepared for a new life.

“We are back home now, together” said Mathilda. “That’s what matters.”

Over a period of a year and a half, all the sisters moved back into town.
Patty sold her club for a ton of money to a shady character who was convinced
he was buying not only the club, but all her contacts and influences and opened
a restaurant. Jill and her husband sold the house by the sea to find a
beautiful luxurious cabin close to the beach. Cordelia left her job and, along
with Angel, moved back in with Mathilda; they renovated the house while healing
Angel, and vowed to make the family grow with tons of children, to the amusement
of Cordelia’s shamisen students. They
also bought a boat and sailed out often, diving and singing old songs as loudly
as they could, causing much distress to the poor seagulls that would scatter in
all directions, away from them as they approached.

“Angel… It’ll be alright. Everything will be alright,” said Mathilda.

Angel smiled and snuggled in her sister’s arms. It took a while, but
life was now good.

The End

--

Thank you to Canary Beck, Connie Arida, Honour McMillan, Strawberry Singh,
Whiskey Monday, Yordie Sands and Ziki Questi for trusting me and allowing me to draw inspiration from their photos and feelings. Also thank you to
Vanessa Blaylock for always being there when technology and I have an argument (!) and to Canary Beck for reaching out and helping me with the photos at iRez. Thank you for your support and encouragement.

Last, but not least, thank you, London, for believing. You are my rock.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

It's official. I am writing a novel in 30 days. Crazy, huh? Yep! I'm joining the thousands all over the world who have been taking part in the NaNoWriMo event for years during the month of November. Lots of crazy people out there!

This is not my first attempt. I tried before, unofficially, without telling anyone and... I failed! Go figure! It's one of the suggestions they give you is to tell EVERYONE! The pressure!

So, this year, a number of things fell into place and I am taking the plunge!

The account is created, and the book even has a name already... a tentative one, but nevertheless a name... "Obscure Connections". It'll be a mystery/thriller/suspense story, that is if things don't change dramatically, which is something that tends to happen when I am writing longer stories!

I was invited by Andrea Pring (Harriet Gausman in Second Life) of the Virtual Writers Inc. to be one of the hosts of the Virtual Writers' Scrimmages on Twitter. These will take place every Wednesday, starting at 12pm (noon) GMT and lasting 12 hours. We start this upcoming Wednesday, October 30! I'm on at 2pm GMT for a fierce word battle!

Also, if you are a Second Life resident, you might want to check the Milk Wood Wrimos inworld. Lots of write-ins, workshops and support in this extraordinarily crazy endevour!

Stabbing that pile
of rubbish wasn’t such a brilliant idea... It looked like a harmless heap of
trash, leaking a gooey matter that seemed like something coming from the
remains of a dead animal. The kids goofed about, throwing the knife they stole
from the butcher’s at each other first. Then, considering the real danger of
such a game, they decided to stab the stack of unusual bags. When it suddenly turned
around, spitting gooey stuff all over them, it was already too late. They were all
the nourishment that alien needed to complete its transformation to become a
human.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

He walked past the
woman sitting on the edge of the stone wall by the old road. She didn’t look at
him; she stared at the floor. Something he couldn’t explain made him stop and
go back. He sat beside her; she still didn’t look at him. He wanted to ask her
why, but he just sat there looking at the same spot on the floor. They sat on
that wall for a long time. Suddenly, she looked up. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Later, she told him she decided to kill herself. She didn’t and never thought
of it again.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

The river twisted
and turned in a familiar path. When Rick saw that last new turn, he was
confused. It was blocked by debris, so he jumped off the boat to investigate. The
more he tried to shove the debris aside, the deeper he was buried in it. First,
he saw an arm… He got closer, carefully. The body was face down, bloated, scratched.
Although disgusted by the looks of it, Rick turned it over and saw his own face.
He remembered now. He had been lost in the river, looking for the way out for
weeks, after that storm…

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Right across the horizon of two-floor houses and palm trees, the promising blue line stretched as far as the eye could see. Every now and then, the uniformity of that blue vastness was scratched. The seagulls stormed the neighborhood with their impatient shrieks, impatiently looking for impatient babies to feed them impatiently. This was in sharp contrast with the quiet horizon, a line between sea and sky filled with promises of past and future, the present suspended in that blue line. If it were a postcard, no one would believe it to be exactly like that. ut it was indeed a blue vastness interrupted only by a white line of seagulls on their way out to sea, to fish impatiently, bringing back a line of fish, a line of seashells, or a line of hope.

She became angry at
him because she thought it was better to clarify things, to talk about what was
not right, to be honest. It was easy to get trapped in routines and entangled in
the petty little every-day-life bickering.

“To grow above that,
we cannot open all doors,” he replied.

She tried to
understand, but she couldn’t… Unspoken, muddled half-truths broke her heart.

He walked away. “I’m
right,” he thought, only to become so lonely in his fake righteousness.